A System of Concepts Worked Out in Steel
by Computerfreak101
Summary: He could feel the rumble reverberate through the building, like the yawn of a giant beast. No one around him seemed to notice; one technician calmly caught his coffee mug as it jittered off his vibrating desk, and another didn't even look up when her pencil cup upended over her keyboard. Somewhere in the background, hard rock music was playing.


"Did I get a concussion recently?" The question was out of his mouth before Bond's mind could process what he was seeing. He didn't think he'd suffered any lasting head trauma lately, but he'd be the first to admit those types of things didn't always attract his attention. More than once Bond had triumphantly wrecked mayhem and murder for England only to discover after the fact that he'd been inconveniently stabbed somewhere in the proceedings.

The prospect of grievous injury was lost on Q, who didn't even give Bond the courtesy of a glare. "Your mental faculties are as questionable as ever, James," he replied with what he probably thought was a reassuring sentence. His voice was muffled under about fifty stones of shining steel and blue paint. A blanket was sprawled by Q's side, and Bond could count at least three tools that he was fairly sure Q built from scratch.

"When did you get a motorbike?"

"Lucille? I've always had her." Completely oblivious to Bond mouthing _Lucille_ like it was something sour, Q groped around the blanket, pulling one of his mutant tools with him to continue whatever repair work he was conducting on 'Lucille's' underside. "We haven't been living together long, so you just haven't seen her until now. God knows we never arrive to work at the same time."

"You drive a motorbike to work," Bond repeated flatly. He tried valiantly to imagine Q weaving through the traffic of London, a tall weed of a man in a mustard yellow sweater and checkered pants, and his brain sputtered out.

"Is this conversation going to be nothing but you questioning me and repeating my answers?" (Bond could easily envision Q's eyebrow rising, even if the motorbike was the only witness.) Sighing, Q did something to the bike that clanged, and squirmed out, sitting up and leaning back on both hands. "The tube is crowded and runs on a schedule I can't always adhere to. Cabs aren't exactly the recommended transportation for shady government officials, but MI6 rarely sends a car over for me because they know I'm either sleeping on their couches or able to do the work from the toilet. Walking is annoying. Ergo, I have a motorbike named Lucille. It's really not complicated."

Bond didn't reply right away; he was too distracted by the streak of oil on Q's right cheek. It looked like war paint, and Bond had a sudden urge to see Q on his knees, filthy and debauched with Bond's seed painting his face instead.

Q noticed, and his sigh wasn't entirely annoyed. "Wretched old pervert," he muttered, and disappeared under Lucille again.

* * *

With no crisis in Asia or terrorist in Eastern Europe to spoil things, Bond did eventually entice Q to bed and make his appearance entirely unfit for public company. Then he washed his quartermaster off, and languidly sucked his cock as a thank you. Somewhere after the third orgasm, it started to rain, and Bond fell asleep to the sound of water lashing against the windows, and Q sprawled shamelessly on top of him.

They remained that way, sated and slumbering, until three a.m.

* * *

_ He could feel the rumble reverberate through the building, like the yawn of a giant beast. No one around him seemed to notice; one technician calmly caught his coffee mug as it jittered off his vibrating desk, and another didn't even look up when her pencil cup upended over her keyboard. Somewhere in the background, hard rock music was playing, the kind Bond heard a long time ago from a helicopter in Scotland._

_ The large double doors of Q Branch – which were no longer bulletproof glass but thick wood – flung open of their own accord, smashing into the walls so hard they shattered. Splinters flew through the air in slow motion and conveniently avoided anyone's eye._

_ Through the gaping maw left in their wake Q's motorbike roared into the room, trailing flames behind it in lieu of smoke. The vehicle itself was purring, actual __**purring**__, and Bond could see its pipes and frame arranged in a way that did look like a woman's face. It whined when Q dismounted, and the quartermaster ran a languid hand across the curves of its frame until it shivered in contentment._

_ Bond thought he might be gaping. For the first time in the three years he'd known him, Q was wearing leather. His entire outfit was made of the material; the pants looked like they'd been painted on, from what Bond could even see of them, because they flowed seamlessly into shining, thigh high boots that accentuated muscles in Q's legs that Bond didn't know existed. The jacket fell just below his hips, and… __**oh**__, those hips. They swung slowly with every step as Q prowled towards Bond, his eyes glowing the same color as Lucille's paintjob._

_ "Hello, James," Q cooed with a voice like scorched velvet. A gloved fingertip traced the planes of Bond's naked abdomen, too soft from continuous use to creak as his fingers curled in the fine hairs covering the base of Bond's skull. Bond was too engulfed in the naked, primal hunger in Q's eyes to care that he'd thought to go to work shirtless. Lucille continued to run idle behind Q, and the roar of its engine buzzed under Bond's flushed skin._

_ Q pulled Bond forward, licking his lips until they were a sinful slash of red. Said lips brushed across the shell of Bond's ear, and oh Christ, Bond could see the beginnings of a tattoo under the jacket's collar, scrolling black ink branding Q with the number 007…_

_ "Care to help me rev up the engine?"_

* * *

A roll of thunder shook the house, and Bond bolted upright in bed, dislodging Q without ceremony off his sweaty chest. He was achingly hard, and when the thunder tolled a second time Bond did a double take around their bedroom, looking for a motorbike with a woman's face.

"Jesus fuck, _what_?!" Q was smashing his glasses on his face, wide eyed and equally awake. "What happened?"

Unable to banish the image of leather clad, tattooed Q from his mind, Bond could only blink at the quartermaster, who looked increasingly disturbed the longer his lover was silent.

"James?" Q asked in a gentler tone. His hand, naked as the rest of him, rested lightly atop Bond's on the sheets. "Did you have another nightmare?"

"…No." Bond licked his lips, and looked at Q's neck. No tattoo to mark him as Bond's, but there was a dark bite mark on the opposite side, and Bond thought that worked just as well. "Not a nightmare. An epiphany."

It was at this point that Q noticed Bond's straining erection, and all concern flew from his countenance so fast that Bond might have felt insulted if he wasn't already planning hours ahead of the late night hour.

"What epiphany?" Q prompted with the wary tone any sane person should use around Bond.

The agent beamed, and kissed Q with the force of the storm outside. Q allowed himself to melt into it and follow Bond's lead, and when he pulled back Q's face was relaxed again, and his pupils were dilated.

"Q," Bond murmured, and his lover hummed quietly in response. "Tomorrow we must fuck on your motorbike."

The pillow that smacked Bond in the nose came fast enough to make Bond wonder if Q had any lasting issues regarding mood swings. He only laughed, ignoring Q's indignant sputters about how, "My motorbike is not a common _office desk_, James!"

"Is Lucille not into threeways?" Bond asked with an appalling amount of innocence.

Q fell back on his side, and jerked the blankets up to his chin. "There is about as much chance of us having sex on my bike as there is of us having sex in the Aston Martin."

Bond fell into contemplative silence, and after a while the curve of Q's body relaxed, already falling back into slumber.

"So if I suck your cock in my car, you'll ride me on your bike?" Q's shoulder twitched, and Bond held his breath.

"…I'll think about it."

* * *

Title taken from this quote: "That's all the motorcycle is, a system of concepts worked out in steel." -Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance


End file.
